The Minotaur by Stephen Coonts Page B

clothes?”
    “I’m playing hooky with the boss.”
    “And it’s only your second day on the job. Lucky you,” she said
as she headed for the bathroom. With the door closed she called,
“How about turning on the coffeepot and toasting some English
muffins?”
    “Yeah.” He headed toward the kitchen, snapping on the lights as
he went. “You’re a real lover, ace. One look at your sincere puss
and they tighten up like an IRS agent offered a ten-dollar bribe.”
    Vice Admiral Henry was sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memo-
rial when the taxi deposited Jake in front. He came down the steps
as Jake approached and joined him on the wide sidewalk. “Morn-
ing, sir.”
    The admiral flashed a smile and strolled to the curb. As he
reached it a gray Ford Fairmont sedan sporting navy numbers on
the door pulled to a stop. Henry jerked open the rear door without
fanfare and maneuvered his six-foot-three-inch frame in. Jake fol-
lowed him. When the door closed the sailor at the wheel got the
car in motion.
    “Why the cloak and dagger?”
    “I don’t know who all the players are,” the admiral said without
humor.
    Jake watched the occasional pedestrians braving the blustery
wind under a raw sky until he became aware that the admiral’s
attention was on the vehicles on the street behind them. Jake
glanced over his shoulder once or twice, then decided to leave the
spy stuff to Henry. He watched the sailor handle the car. The man
was good. No wasted motion. The car glided gently through the
traffic, changing lanes at the last moment and gliding around cor-
ners without the application of the brake, all quite effortlessly. It
was a show and Jake watched it in silence.
    “Could have picked you up at your place,” Henry muttered,
“but I wanted to visit the Wall.” The Wall was the Vietnam Memo-
rial, Just across the street from the Lincoln Memorial. “It’s been
too long and I never seem to have any time.”
    “I understand.”
    “Turn left here,” Henry said to the driver, who complied. The
car headed east on Independence Avenue. Henry ordered another
left turn on Fourteenth Street and directed the driver to go by the
Jefferson Memorial. “I think we’re clean,” he muttered to Jake
after yet another careful look through the rear window. At the
Jefferson Memorial, Henry asked the driver to pun over. “Come
back for us at nine.”
    He led Jake toward the walkway around the Tidal Basin. Across
the basin the Washington Monument rose toward the low clouds.
Beyond it, Jake knew, but not visible from here, was the White
House.
    Jake broke the silence first. “Does Admiral Dunedin know we’re
having this talk this morning, sir?”
    “Yeah. I told him. You work for him. But I wanted to brief you
personally. What do you know about stealth?”
    “The usual,” Jake said, snuggling into his coat against the chill
wind. “What’s in the papers. Not much.”
    “The air force contracted for two prototype stealth fighters un-
der a blanket of absolute secrecy. Lockheed got the production
contract They call the thing the F-117A. It’s a fighter in name
only; it’s really an attack plane—performance roughly equivalent
to the A-7 without afterburner but carries less than half the A-7
weapons load. Primary weapons are Maverick missiles. It’s a little
ridiculous to call a subsonic minibomber a fighter, but if they can
keep the performance figures low-key they might get away with it.”
    “I thought that thing was supposed to be a warp-three killing
machine.”
    “Yeah. I suspect the congressmen who agreed to vote for a huge
multibillion-buck project with no public debate probably did too.
But even supersonic ain’t possible. The thing doesn’t even have
afterburners. Might go supersonic in a dive—I don’t know. Any-
way, the air force got more bang for their buck with the stealth
bomber, the B-2, which Northrop is building. It’s also subsonic, a
flying wing, but big and capable with a good fuel load. The